


Test and Proof

by sassyjumper



Series: Post-finale Road Trip [2]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassyjumper/pseuds/sassyjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the series finale.  House and Wilson stop in Savannah for some pecans, haunted hospitals and panic attacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Test and Proof

Title is from one of my favorite Rainer Maria Rilke quotes (in “Letters to a Young Poet”):

 _For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been given to us, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation_.

 

 

"A _haunted hospital?_ ” House put his elbows on the formica table and tilted his head, adopting the expression he used for particularly dumb people. “Are you serious?”

Wilson held his hands up. “It’s not like there are any patients,” he assured. “Well…none living.”

House paused, darting his eyes to the side. “That does make it better than a regular hospital,” he acknowledged.

Wilson smiled and reached for his 99-cent bottomless cup of coffee.

“ _But,_ ” House continued brightly, “there are lots of places better than a regular hospital. Any number of rest-stop bathrooms, for example…Actually, there are some pretty interesting goings-on—”

“House, c’mon,” Wilson cut in, putting on a shameless display of what House now called his “I’m dying” eyes.

“I think it’ll actually be fun,” Wilson forged on. “It’s historical, it’s educational, we’ll get to mock the stupidity of our professional ancestors…”

“That’s not our profession anymore,” House said, looking Wilson directly in the eyes.

When he got no response, House continued. “Our profession is riding hog and being unbearably cool. Well, that second part is _my_ specialty, actually.”

Wilson just kept looking at him with those eyes. “OK,” House said, “you really think a hospital is the ideal place for us to vaycay?”

Wilson opened his mouth then closed it. House sat back and crossed his arms in triumph.

But Wilson was apparently determined. “We-ell,” he finally said, “it’s not really a hospital anymore. And that’s only part of the tour anyway. There’s also Bonaventure Cemetery—”

“Fantastic,” House said, with none of the enthusiasm the word implied.

Wilson sighed. “Fine. Never mind.”

“’Kay.” House went back to giving his pecan praline cheesecake the attention it richly deserved.

Then Wilson started tapping his fingers on the table. House knew exactly what that meant: This turn of events was not _fine_. And there was a lot of minding going on.

“It’s just,” he heard Wilson begin again, “if we’re gonna bother stopping in Savannah, we should see the historical sites. And that means a lot of haunted stuff.”

“Haunted _stuff?_ ” House said through a mouthful of cheesecake. So it actually came out, “Ha-he _tuh?_ ”

Wilson wrinkled his nose as a few cheesecake crumbs landed perilously close to his coffee.

House swallowed then raised an accusatory index finger. “So,” he said, “you’re still caught up in what you _should_ be doing?”

Wilson did the guppy thing with his mouth again, much to House’s delight. But then Wilson sat up a little straighter.

“No,” he said firmly. “I want to do it...You know I’ve always liked spooky things,” he added, with a goofy little laugh.

“Spooky?” House repeated, marveling at how all the leather and motorcycles in the world were no match for his friend’s dorkiness.

Wilson did the eyes again, and House felt his defenses crumbling. _Fuck it._ He sighed dramatically. “OK, Scooby, we’ll check out your haunted hospital.”

House reached out as if to ruffle Wilson’s hair. Wilson sat back, out of reach and slightly alarmed.

“Thanks…Shaggy.”

House felt like he might smile, so he smirked and said, “You realize you just called me your master, don’t you?”

“Please,” Wilson said, as he politely waved to the waitress for their check. “Everyone knows Shaggy wore the leash in that relationship.”

House almost choked on a pecan.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Savannah has been declared ‘America’s Most Haunted City’ by the American Institute of Parapsychology,” proclaimed their tour guide, a dandily dressed young man named Chance.

“Well, _that_ makes it legit,” House said, ostensibly to Wilson but loud enough to address the whole tour group.

Wilson gave him a warning look. “Just humor me. Please,” he mumbled, lips barely moving.

House looked around the small gathering of culotte- and khaki-wearing tourists. They were all smiling vacantly at Chance (pronounced “Chanz,” he’d obnoxiously informed them) as he began his spiel in one of Savannah’s famous, oak-tree-shaded town squares.

House returned his gaze to Wilson. “I believe that’s what I am doing. Oh, and a walking tour along cobblestone streets is really perfect for me. So thanks.”

Wilson cringed. “Yeah, sorry.” Then he shook his head. “Just don’t get us thrown off this tour, too.”

“Hey, you cannot pin that Amish incident on me—”

One of the culotte women standing in front of them turned and whispered, “Will you _please?_ ”

House watched Wilson flash his patented apology smile. “Of course. So sorry.”

House rolled his eyes. Chance, in his lilting, Southern-gentleman voice, was explaining that Savannah was a city “literally built upon its dead.”

Back in the 1730s, Chance told them, Savannah had grown so quickly that its cemeteries were simply overrun—grave markers removed, but not the bodies. And businesses and homes were laid down on top of them.

“Dude, like _Poltergeist!_ ” House exclaimed to Wilson.

Plus, Chance went on, there were all those pirates who floated into town, and often never left—though who knows where their bodies ended up?

“ _Arrrrr,_ ” House said.

Then during the Revolutionary War, a bloodbath of a battle left the city with a couple thousand dead soldiers to dispose of. The answer was to dump them in mass graves. Some city-wide fires and a couple yellow fever epidemics added to the body count.

“They say there are over 10,000 unmarked graves just in the historic district,” Chance said, then paused dramatically. “Right here…under our feet.”

A murmur went through the sea of khaki. House glanced at Wilson, who was looking down and biting his lip. _Uh-oh._

When Wilson looked up and caught House’s gaze, he smiled sheepishly. “Maybe—maybe this is too…”

“Stupid?” House finished. “Yes. Even if we’re standing on graves, all those bodies became worms’ meat a long time ago. And Lance here—”

“Chance,” Wilson said half-heartedly.

“Lance thinks he’s setting us up to believe the streets are teeming with pissed off spirits—”

“Sir,” the same culotte woman turned around, saying in a Southern drawl, “you are being very disrespectful of the dead.”

House angled to face her full-on. “Oh, I’m sorry!” He smiled and Culotte Lady nodded curtly.

“But you know,” House added, before she could turn her attention back to Chance, “if I were one of these angry dead people, I’d be pretty offended that someone was making money by bringing other people to stomp all over my grave…and drop their cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and Wilson discreetly took hold of House’s arm. “OK,” he muttered close to House’s ear. “Let’s just leave.”

House furrowed his brow and looked at Wilson. “Why? I’m starting to think you’re right. This might be fun.”

Wilson snorted. “Right. You plan to mock everything that poor tour guide says, and ruin the experience for everyone.”

House tried to look abashed. “Does that sound like me?”

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” House said. “I won’t start a ruckus. Or a _brouhaha._ I really want to observe this.”

And he did. Mass manipulation, even fairly small-scale, was a fascinating thing.

House phrased it slightly differently for Wilson: “You know I find certain forms of idiocy interesting…your particular brand, for instance.”

“I’m so glad I retain your interest.”

Their tour group had started slowly migrating toward the next town square. Wilson looked at House. “Honestly,” he confided, “I don’t think I feel like doing this. It’s…it was a stupid idea.”

House looked at Wilson’s brown eyes for a few moments, and then it hit him. Anger. House was suddenly, oddly and intensely pissed off.

 _Of course,_ he thought. Wilson was uncomfortable, so he wanted to give up. _Of course._

“All this talk of dead people getting ya down?” House asked, and Wilson looked at him, slightly startled.

House felt emboldened by the look. Like he wanted to startle Wilson some more.

“Is it making you think about what it’ll be like to be dead?” House pressed. He was vaguely surprised at how simultaneously awful and wonderful it felt to say that.

House wasn’t quite sure where the sudden rush of _feelings_ was coming from. But it was coming.

Wilson said nothing, for once. So House kept talking.

“Well, maybe it’s time you did think. All this bucket-list stuff has just been a lot of random crap. Busy-time to keep your mind off of what’s coming. Well, lucky for you, I’ve thought about it a lot—“

“House,” Wilson finally spoke, in a low, warning tone.

But House felt the words flowing out of him. “I’ve thought about it a lot,” he repeated, in case Wilson had missed anything.

“And here’s what’s going to happen: You’ll be dead, and that’s it. For you. But I’ll still be around. And then I’ll have _two_ motorcycles, and two helmets, and all your worldly possessions. Jackpot, right?”

Wilson pressed his lips together, and then just started to walk away, following their tour group. House quickly limped after him. “So that’s it?” he called, as he tried to catch up. “Just hopping back on the grand tour?”

Wilson turned his head slightly. “Go away.”

“Can’t,” House said, catching up after a few limp-skips. “Kinda stuck with you.”

“Yeah,” Wilson laughed, with no humor. He sidled right up to their nemesis the Culotte Lady. “Did I miss anything important?” he whispered to her.

She turned and, presumably because Wilson wasn’t House, responded. “We’re goin’ to a house where some Jack the Ripper type used to live back in the day. Then to the Old Candler Hospital. They have some weird tunnels underneath or some’in…”

Wilson pulled off an exaggerated shudder, and Culotte Lady laughed in that light Southern way.

House wanted to throttle her, and then Wilson.

But instead he hung back and watched Wilson make friends with Culotte Lady and her companion, Other Culotte Lady. He was just doing it as a weird, Wilson-y way to lash out at House. That much, House knew.

When the tour group began meandering again, House limped along, but at a distance. He needed a break from Wilson anyway. Just as long as he stayed within House’s line of sight.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The Old Candler Hospital actually was kind of creepy, House had to admit. Silently, to himself.

The sun was setting, and the silence around the white stone building hung heavily. Large areas of the building’s exterior had been allowed to crumble, and there were broken windows on the upper floors. The crows perched on the curving staircase at the building’s entrance were a nice touch, House decided.

Chance led his intrepid tour group to one side of the building, where he said the entrance to the infamous “tunnel” lay. There were murmurs again.

On the way to the hospital, Chance had told them they would not be going into the hospital proper. But the brave (and non-disabled) among them had the option of going into the tunnel.

The tunnel was the subject of various legends. The “most widely accepted” one, Chance had claimed, was that the tunnel had secretly stored bodies during the city’s deadliest yellow fever epidemic, in the 1870s.

Wanting to avoid panic, city officials had told the hospital to pile the dead in the tunnel like cordwood. "Then," Chance had said, "under cover of night, bodies were removed and relocated to secret mass graves."

 _The Savannah special,_ House had thought.

He’d reflexively looked for Wilson--who, apparently, had been looking for him. They’d caught each others’ eyes and shared a _What bullshit!_ look for a moment. Then Wilson must have remembered he was mad at House, because he’d looked away.

Now here they were, at the entrance to the hospital tunnel. It was a long, rectangular hole in the pavement, with a “door” that slid off to the side. Precarious looking stone steps led down into the ground.

There was almost no daylight left, but the surrounding area was well-lit. Still, Chance urged everyone to remain standing back, far from the tunnel entrance. He would assist, in an orderly manner, anyone who dared descend into the hospital bowels.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” a feminine voice said, next to House. “It looks like a _grave,_ for god’s sake!”

House looked once more at the tunnel entrance and felt a little drop in the pit of his stomach. _Odd,_ he thought, at the sensation.

Instinctively, he looked again for Wilson, but couldn’t immediately spot him. House noticed a shift in his own breathing. And definitely a slight pickup in his heart rate. _Odd._

Then Wilson came into view. He was emerging from the shadows to join the small, orderly line that was forming to head into the tunnel.

House’s heart rate picked up a bit more, and he found himself limping straight for Wilson.

“Oh sir!” House heard that same feminine voice call from behind. “They won’t let you go down with that cane!”

House reached Wilson and grabbed his arm. “Don’t go down there,” he said without preamble.

Wilson turned to him with a scowl, then pulled his arm free. “What? I want to see what’s inside. Nothing, I’m sure, but—”

House felt inexplicably desperate. “Think of what the air is like in there!” he almost yelled. At Wilson’s expression, he quieted his voice. “Your cough has been getting worse.”

House could have sworn he saw Wilson’s face pale a bit, even in the distorting, artificial lights. Then Wilson narrowed his eyes. “No, it hasn’t.”

“In your sleep,” House said, reaching for Wilson’s arm again. “It’s been _really_ annoying.”

Wilson looked at him, and House looked at the ground. “Don’t go down there,” he said to the pavement, then tightened his grip on Wilson.

Wilson shook his arm loose again, but more gently this time. “I’m fine. Just--just go sit down on the wall over there with everyone else. I’m just going in for a few minutes.”

He turned away from House and walked to catch up with the end of the line.

House thought he should probably just tackle Wilson. But he realized he didn’t have the strength. He turned and limped heavily toward the wall. By the time he was sitting, Wilson was starting his descent into the haunted tunnel.

House really wanted to laugh at the idea. But there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. He tried taking a deeper inhalation, but something was obstructing the breath. So he started to breathe more quickly, even though he knew that was a bad idea.

Then there was the oddest sensation of his heart thumping, audibly it seemed, right into his chest wall. As if it could burst through like some sort of cartoon-character heart.

House leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, pursing his lips to try to slow his breathing.

“Sir, are you OK?” a new voice, another Southern-tinged one, said from beside him. A hesitant hand patted his back.

“Do you need help, sir?” another voice asked. House could feel strange bodies starting to crowd around him. He wanted to tell them that he was fine. And that he’d be great if they would all shut the fuck up and _back the fuck off_.

Then somehow, through all of that, House heard the coughing loud and clear. He looked up. One of the idiots blocking his view angled to see what had caught House’s attention.

Then House could see it. Wilson doubled over coughing, yet more strangers crowding him, their weird hands touching his back.

 _Enough_ , House thought. He pushed off of the wall, his eyes on Wilson. But immediately he felt dizzy and his knees hit the ground. The familiar pain in his thigh was almost welcome. It was a known enemy, after all.

“Sir, sir,” the strange voices all seemed to say at once. House kept his head down, just repeating, “Get the fuck away,” like a mantra. But he wasn’t sure he was actually saying it out loud.

Then there were hands on his face. But they weren’t hesitant and weird. They were Wilson’s. And then he was looking into Wilson’s eyes, which were studying his. And then Wilson was checking his pulse.

“House,” he heard Wilson say. “Just look at me and breathe with me.”

House kept looking right into Wilson’s eyes. Wilson started taking long, steady breaths, and his hands slipped around House’s. “Breathe with me,” Wilson said again.

And House breathed with him.

Breath by breath, the ground started feeling more solid. And the painful thumping in House’s chest eased. He let his head drop. “I’m fine,” he said, after a little while.

“I’m a doctor,” he heard Wilson say to someone, in a reassuring tone. “We both are.”

 _No_ , House thought. _Not anymore_.

Then Wilson politely asked everyone to back away, so his friend could have some space. It was most likely his asthma, Wilson told them, and unfortunately, he’d forgotten his inhaler. Wilson could lie so easily when he wanted to.

Wilson helped House sit back on the low wall, then crouched down in front of him. “It was a panic attack,” Wilson said simply, looking House in the eyes.

“ _Nah_ ,” House said, starting to feel like himself again. “It was my asthma.”

Wilson ignored him. “Why?”

“I dunno. How was your coughing attack, by the way? Fun?” House deflected.

Wilson pulled a face. “It was psychosomatic,” he said. “The air was stale down there, and I thought of what you said, and—”

“And I was right,” House said.

Wilson hesitated. “I didn’t know it would do _this_ to you,” he said softly.

House wanted to punch him. Or possibly hug him. “Gawd,” House said instead. “You bring a guy to America’s Most Fucking Fucked-Up City, then get all, ‘Dude, why are you so on edge?’ That is so messed up.”

Wilson looked a little embarrassed. But then he wrinkled his brow. “So that title is bestowed by…what? The American Institute of Fuckery?”

“The AIF, yes.” House nodded.

Wilson stood up and held out a hand. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

House ignored the hand, but got up and started to walk alongside Wilson.

They easily fell into the same rhythm, taking their time to make sure feet and breath were steady. Slowly they made their way back toward the narrow sidewalks and stately townhomes that surrounded the town squares.

There was no reason to hurry. The ubiquitous oak trees, with their Spanish moss, really were something to see, Wilson remarked. And even House couldn’t find fault with the scent of the magnolias.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They’d chosen an actual hotel this time, at Wilson’s urging. He’d tolerated the cheap, dingy motels with relatively few complaints, House had noticed. Saving money was a priority, of course, since riding hog and being unbearably cool did not pay well.

But Wilson, for his own inscrutable reasons, had insisted they spend one night in a real, old-school inn on one of Savannah’s squares.

House had expected him to start squealing when they’d entered their room. What with its high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows and frilly curtains, and twin four-poster beds, it was any girl’s or any Wilson’s dream.

But Wilson had contained himself to a smile and a “Nice,” as he’d slid his fingers across the solid wood dresser, apparently finding no dust. When House had said, in alarm, that the TV had been stolen, Wilson had laughed.

Now Wilson was sound asleep in the bed next to House’s. Unlike in the hermetically sealed environs of the Motel 6, this room was bathed in moonlight that seeped through the light curtains.

So House could watch Wilson breathe. Yet again.

His mind wandered back to a few nights before, when Wilson had brazenly climbed into bed with him and laid his head on House’s shoulder like it belonged there. Eventually, House had had to rearrange them so he could get some sleep, too. But they’d stayed side-by-side all night. And it hadn’t even been all that weird.

But House had felt weird ever since.

Not that he’d been feeling hunky-dory before that night. It was, of course, weird to wake up somewhere different almost every morning. To not ride his bike, or drive with Wilson, along the familiar path to work. To not see the faces of Foreman and his team, or even the none-too-friendly faces of most of his colleagues. To not sit at his piano at night.

But now House was feeling a different kind of weird.

He got out of bed, bringing his pillow with him. And then promptly hit Wilson in the head with it.

“Wh-Wha?” Wilson mumbled in confusion, putting his forearms over his head in an anti-pillow defense position.

“You were coughing,” House accused.

Wilson let his arms drop to his sides. “I was not,” he sighed.

“Were too!” House insisted childishly, then plopped down on the edge of Wilson’s bed.

“And you followed standard medical procedure by…assaulting me,” Wilson said, propping himself up on his forearms.

“It was a pillow, drama queen.”

Wilson started to reach for the bedside lamp. “Keep the light off,” House said. Wilson paused mid-reach, as if waiting for an explanation. So House gave him one: “You’re pretty tough to look at when you first wake up…As well as most afternoons, evenings, holidays—”

“Got it,” Wilson interrupted, through a sigh.

There was silence for a few moments, before Wilson broke down. “Sooooo?” he prompted.

“There’s no TV,” House said.

“Aaaaand?”

“I’m _booooored._ ”

Wilson’s head fell back to his pillow. “Go to sleep, House.”

House didn’t budge. He just kept looking at Wilson, hoping telepathic powers did, in fact, exist.

“House!” Wilson grouched. “Do you want to talk or not?”

“Yes.”

Wilson sighed heavily. After a couple beats, he sat up. “You had a panic attack,” he said, matter-of-factly.

To show he agreed, House said nothing.

“And I’m fairly certain it wasn’t because you were scared of the ghosts and goblins,” Wilson continued.

“I did find Lance’s vest pretty scary.”

Wilson huffed a small laugh. “Chan _zzzz,_ ” he said.

House smiled a little, and they were silent again.

“I told you not to go down there,” House finally said, hoping his voice was sufficiently bitchy.

Wilson bent his knees toward his chest and slumped a little against his pillows. “I didn’t know it would really upset you,” he defended.

That was Wilson’s way of apologizing, House knew. But he couldn’t help saying, “It didn’t _upset_ me. You were being stupid and it pissed me off.”

“Uh-huh,” Wilson said, in that supremely annoying way he had.

It was House’s turn to sigh. “OK,” he said curtly. “Remember when we were run out of Amish country? I suggested we head east—to Philly, maybe Baltimore?”

“Yes,” Wilson said. “And I reminded you that we’ve been to both those cesspools countless times. And that we know a lot of people there. Not a great idea…”

“And _then,_ ” House barreled on, “I suggested we go toward Atlanta rather than Savannah?”

“Again,” Wilson said, “a city we’ve been to many times, where we could potentially be recognized.”

“There’s something else those places have in common, though,” House said, staring at Wilson, even through the dim light.

Silence again. Then Wilson said, helplessly, “House.”

House paused. “Yep,” he said, popping the 'p.' “I thought maybe you’d consider checking out some of their deluxe-accommodation chemotherapy suites.”

Wilson took a shaky breath. “We decided…you _said_ —”

“I know,” House jumped in. “I know.”

Wilson was quiet. “I—” House began, then shifted course. “When you’re sleeping and snoring and coughing, and being generally annoying, I’m thinking.

“I think of how I told you I’d accept your decision. And we’d just live out these last months, doing whatever you want.”

House could see Wilson turn his head toward the window.

“And then I think of how incredibly fucked up that is. And I don’t want to go along with it anymore.”

Wilson’s head quickly turned back to him.

“But then,” House said, “I remember that I promised you.” He hesitated on the next words. “And…and I don’t want to mess this up. This last thing I have with you.”

Wilson was quiet for a moment, then cleared his throat. “I know…I know it’s hard—”

He said a few more words, but House realized he didn’t really feel like listening to Wilson.

“I keep waiting for you to change your mind,” House broke in, a little surprised he put it so directly.

“But,” he went on, “you just keep planning ghost tours, and eating waffles, and squeezing roadside vegetables. And putting your fucking _head_ on my shoulder. Why can’t you just _change your fucking mind?_ ”

He and Wilson just looked at each other through the dark. It wasn’t really silent, though, House realized. There were voices outside on the sidewalk, and cars, and a whole world. But he didn’t give a shit about any of it.

“I _did_ change my mind,” he heard Wilson choke out. “I told you I’d do the chemo, and you said no!”

“Because!” House cut him off, then looked around for his cane. He needed something to do with his hands. Where was the goddamn thing?

“Because,” House said again, gripping his thighs instead. “You were only gonna do it because I wanted you to.”

“So what’s different now?”

 _God,_ House thought. _Why can’t you just get it? Why do you make me say shit?_

“I,” House began, “I want you to change your mind because you actually want to live longer. With me.”

Silence again, and House couldn’t stand it. He started to bounce his good leg. God, he need his cane, or Ball-y, or _something._

“House,” Wilson said, clearing his throat again. “I-I really think this is better. I know it’s a shorter time. B-but maybe not. You never know. And you said yourself chemo would only get me another year or so.”

“Or longer,” House argued. “And like _you_ just said, you never know. Who knows how you’ll respond to a different chemo regimen?”

“House,” Wilson said tiredly.

“ _Stop_ saying my name!” House heard himself yell, not really meaning to be that loud. But fuck, he was just so angry now. He took a moment to regain control of his voice. “Why won’t you just change your mind?”

House got up. He had to find his cane. But he didn’t want to turn the lights on. Apparently neither did Wilson. House could feel Wilson’s eyes watching him from where he still sat in bed.

So House turned on him and limped back to his bedside. He looked down at Wilson’s form, grateful he couldn’t really see his eyes. Because he knew what they would look like right now.

“I gave up my _whole life_ for you,” House gritted out. “And you don’t want to live enough to endure some nausea. Oh, and maybe your precious locks will fall out—”

“I never asked you to,” Wilson interrupted.

“Yeah, I know,” House said. “You didn’t put in a request for fake-death-plus-motorcycle-road-trip. But guess what? It’s done. Sorry.”

Wilson let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah.” He paused, then said, “Do…do you really think I just eat waffles and plan walking tours, and don’t think?”

House didn’t know how to answer that. He was never completely sure what Wilson was thinking. As well as House knew his friend, he always had a feeling there was something being held back.

“Before this…odyssey, I at least felt like, after I’m gone,” Wilson paused. “After I was gone, you’d have Foreman, your team, even Thirteen and Chase. You’d have your work to keep your mind occupied."

Wilson sighed. “Now, whenever I think, it’s always about…what’s going to happen to you? Where are you gonna go? Who…who’s going to…”

House saw Wilson draw a hand up to his face, then heard him sniff. “So yeah. Sometimes I do fill our days up with _busy-time._ And I try not to think sometimes. Because it fucking scares me.”

House just stood there, at a loss. Then he realized he was hovering over Wilson in his bed, like some kind of lunatic.

So he sat down heavily on the edge of Wilson’s bed again. He was fairly sure Wilson was crying now, but there was no way either of them was going to turn on the light.

House wanted to tell Wilson not to worry, that he’d be fine. _You should just think about yourself,_ is what House supposed he should say.

But he couldn’t lie to Wilson. He couldn’t tell him he’d be fine when he had no idea if it was true. For all his thinking, every time House got to the part that went, “After Wilson’s gone,” he’d just stop.

Because he couldn’t really form any images of what that life would be.

But House also knew he’d put them in this particular situation. And Wilson was running, too. He’d left his parents, any ties to home. To spend every one of his remaining days with House. And to worry about him.

“We are both so fucked up,” House said suddenly.

Wilson laughed, then sniffed.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Shove over,” House said.

Wilson hesitated. “Why?” he asked, suspicion in his voice.

“Because I need to lie to your right so your gangly, errant legs don’t hit my thigh.” Wilson remained still, so House added, “I’m not going to knock you out and strap you to my diabolical chemo machine.”

“No, it’s just,” Wilson said awkwardly. But then he shoved over, as asked, and House settled in beside him. The vacated pillow smelled of Wilson’s ridiculous coconut lotion. But House had gotten used to the smell, and it was tolerable.

“House?” Wilson said quietly.

House sighed. “I’m tired, Wilson. Can we save it?”

“I…Yeah, sure.”

House kneaded his thigh. It had been bothering him since his fall at the stupid haunted hospital.

“Wilson?” he said suddenly. “What was down there? In that tunnel.”

He heard Wilson sigh softly. “Nothing.”

House turned his head to look at his friend’s profile.

“I’m tired, House. Can we save it?”

“Yeah, sure,” House said.

Wilson turned away from him, toward the window. But as he did, he shifted closer to House.

Wilson was so close, in fact, that House could feel him breathe. So House started to breathe with him. And he decided that for now, it was enough.

 

 


End file.
